


Another Path

by CosmicOcelot



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: An alternative version of The Paths You Take, which my editor asked me to write for them because I accidentally made them fall in the love with the non-fic-canon ship.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, past one-sided jaskier/geralt
Comments: 17
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

He definitely drowned multiple kittens in a previous life.

There’s no other explanation for the hatred Destiny seemed to have for him, turning a nice stroll through a forest on his way to the next town into a life-or-death battle. Not that Jaskier is entirely unused to this sort of caper, but this one involved a thing with entirely too many teeth to be justified in a single mouth, and claws practically the size of his entire body. And wouldn’t you know it? He’d left his witcher on the top of a mountain fuck knows how many miles away from his soon-to-be untimely death.

So here he was, lying flat on his back, fire arching through the tear in his flesh that _just the very tip_ of the damn thing’s claws managed to make. His lungs burning just as fierce from running till his legs gave out. Useless, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes as he waited for the creature to just hurry up and finish what it fucking started –

A horrible, strangled cry pierced Jaskier’s eardrums, and he had a moment to think that at least now he could add ‘deaf as a doorknob’ to his earthly woes before he came to his imminent and violent conclusion. But then, all of a sudden, the cry abruptly cut off. And though the silence that followed was also near deafening in comparison, Jaskier could still make out the footsteps that crunched through the undergrowth before a face hovered above him, its features blocked out by the sun behind it. “Still alive, huh?”

If not for the fact that breath still seemed uneager to entertain his lungs, Jaskier’s lips would already have been halfway through forming a reply of such pronounced wit that this stranger would either bow his head in shame to his superior intelligence or slit his throat out of bewildered frustration. So, all in all, perhaps it’s a good thing that all Jaskier could do for the moment was try and coax a deep breath into his lungs, before pushing himself upwards and off the ground. 

“Whoa, easy,” the figure moved to his side, crouching down and keeping a hand on Jaskier’s chest, not pressing him back to the ground, but definitely holding him in place. “You might not be able to see yourself right now, but trust me, you look like you went ten rounds with a wyvern.”

“You should see the other... _thing_ ,” Jaskier slurred, pressing a hand to his forehead, dizziness and pain still making his head reel.

“I did.” The stranger sounded almost... _impressed_. “Found your dagger by the way, stuck real deep inside the son of a bitch. Gotta hand it to you, seems like you really gave it your all.”

“Thanks.” Jaskier removed his hand from his face and turned to peer blearily at the rather kind stranger –

His breath died in his throat as his eyes caught on the silver medallion resting on the stranger’s chest.

For a moment, he panicked, thinking that perhaps he just didn’t recognize the voice. After all, it’d been so long since –

But though the eyes he met were that same golden colour, the pupils the same cat-like slits, they were set in a face completely different to the one he’d been expecting.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier breathed. Relief crashed through him, almost as dizzying as the chase had been, and he saw the apprehension in the stranger’s face give way to confusion at the sight. Obviously, his kind were used to something far removed from relief when another met their eyes.

“Name’s Lambert, actually,” the witcher corrected, but then broke into a crooked

grin of his own, “though I certainly won’t stop you from worshipping me.”

Jaskier laughed, loud and with a more than slight manic edge, and he was still laughing when the darkness reached up and swallowed him whole. 

* * *

Dim lamplight painted the wooden ceiling above a soft amber when Jaskier opened his eyes again, and for a moment he thought that he might have just dreamed the whole thing. Then he tried to sit up, winced at the tug on his wound the movement caused, and lies back down on the bed with a sigh.

“Never had someone faint at the sight of me before,” the voice made Jaskier damn near jump out of his skin, only now aware of the shadowy figure leaning against the opposite wall, “gotta say, it’s extremely flattering.”

Recognizing the voice to be the witcher from before, Jaskier relaxed slightly, his heart ceasing its efforts to flee his chest in fright. “Thrilled as I am to boost your ego, I suspect the whole nearly-being-devoured thing had significantly more to do with it, Sir -” Jaskier paused, turning to face the stranger “– what was your name again?”

“Lambert,” The witcher made his way over to a small table in front of the fire, snatching an apple from a bowl in its centre while he twirled a dagger – _Jaskier’s_ dagger – in his other hand, “and I wouldn’t move around too much if I were you. Gotta give that scratch of yours time to heal.”

“Rather more than a _scratch_ , I should think,” Jaskier grumbled under his breath.

“Then you’d think wrong,” Lambert took a bite of his apple as he continued to cross the room toward him. “I’m torn between awarding you points for _only_ ending up with a scratch, or chalking it up to blind luck. If it’s luck, then I have to ask if you have some sort of death wish.”

“I wasn’t aware that witchers _had_ to do anything,” Jaskier replied. “Other than slice up the occasional devil for some coin.”

“True,” Lambert chuckled dryly, “though, you left out the whole “ _eating children_ ” part.”

“It’s not leaving it out if it isn’t true to begin with,” Jaskier muttered, letting out another aggravated sigh. “Really, thank you for your assistance, but I assure you, it was entirely unnecessary. I had the matter well in hand.”

Lambert snorted, raising his eyebrows. “So, you’re a comedian then.”

“Bard, actually.”

“Then tell me, _bard_ ,” Lambert moved a chair from the table over to Jaskier’s bed, the wood groaning slightly under his weight as he settled down in it, “are you always this mouthy with the people that save your life?”

“It’s sort of my brand at this point,” Jaskier drawled, using a slight smirk to try and obscure the gnawing hollow pit in his gut that grew ever stronger at all the visceral reminders that Lambert, that this witcher, brought with him. “Can’t see any reason to change tactics now.”

“Fair enough,” Lambert shrugged, watching him for a moment before giving Jaskier’s dagger one last twirl and holding it out to him, hilt first. “Figured you might want this back, seeing as it’s the only reason you still draw breath.”

“Thoughtful of you.” Jaskier reached forward and took it back, groaning when his fingers brushed over the crack in the hilt. “ _Damn conman_. I _knew_ I should have taken my business elsewhere.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “I think using that letter opener to try and slay a wyvern might have voided its warranty.”

“That’s beside the point.” Jaskier traced his fingertip along the blade gently, looking for any chips or cracks in the metal. “And I didn’t intend to slay anything! But considering the only other option was giving the dratted winged-rat my life, I didn’t have much of a choice. Seeing as I was, and still am, very much attached to it – ah!” Jaskier jerked his hand away with a short cry of pain, his finger having caught on a chip in the metal.

But before he could put it in his mouth to try and stem the flow of blood, Lambert caught his wrist and held it in place with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, could’ve told you that was going to happen.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Jaskier rolled his own eyes.

“You’re welcome.” Lambert wrapped a bit of cloth around the finger. “And you’re fine. It’s more paper-cut than scratch.”

“I dread to think what you would call a _wound_ ,” Jaskier deadpanned, ignoring Lambert’s smirk to properly gaze around the room. “Where are we?”

“Closest inn.” Lambert released his wrist and leant back slightly. “Thought it might be bad form to leave you bleeding out in the middle of the road. Might’ve attracted ghouls or something.”

“My saviour,” Jaskier said dryly, “so honourable and noble. Small wonder I’ve yet to hear any ballads that carry your name in their melody.”

A brief shadow passed over Lambert’s face before it disappeared with another shrug of his shoulders. “Yeah, well, pretty sure the Continent only needs one wolf to sing about.” Jaskier stiffened at the reminder, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Lambert, who cocked his head at Jaskier, eyebrow raised. “Not a fan of the White Wolf? Not surprising. Seems I can’t take two steps without hearing that insufferable coin song – ”

“ _Insufferable_?” Jaskier stared at Lambert, very much affronted. That song had taken him a week to properly compose and refine. A week full of death glares when his fingers so much as rested against the strings of his lute, and grunted threats of bodily harm if he continued to talk a mile a minute every second of the day. His feet following the hoofprints in the dirt and the broad shoulders and long white hair in front of him. All the while trying at every and any opportunity to get another glance at those wonderful eyes.

Lambert saw the look on Jaskier’s face and rolled his eyes. “Right, I forgot, you’re a bard. You probably think the damn ballad’s a masterpiece that you’re just dying to re-create with your own words – ”

“They _are_ my own words,” Jaskier snapped hotly. “And they deserve a hell of a lot better than _insufferable._ Honestly, do all witchers have no appreciation for music – ?”

“Your words.” Lambert interrupted Jaskier’s tirade, staring at him with his brow furrowed, and the bard realized his mistake too late – continuing the running theme of his life.

Destiny must have been so proud.

“You’re Geralt’s – ”

“Well!” Jaskier quickly averted his gaze from Lambert, moving to push himself up and off the bed. “This – this has been... well. Thank you again for your assistance, I’ll not take up anymore of your time – ” He tried to stand and this time couldn’t hold back the cry that slipped past his lips as pain shot through him, legs giving way and bringing him down to the hard, wooden floorboards.

Hands gripped his waist, guiding him back down on the bed with a careful gentleness that seemed entirely at odds with everything Jaskier had seen and heard of their owner so far. “Could’ve told you that was going to happen as well.”

“Have I mentioned how incredibly helpful your foresight is?” Jaskier muttered, resting his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

Silence covered them both for a moment, and Jaskier worked very hard to keep his breathing even and steady – aware that Lambert could see every twitch and tremor that could have given away the game Jaskier was trying so desperately to keep hidden. Then again, wasn’t the game already up? He and Geralt had twenty years between them, twenty winters that Geralt and this Lambert had spent together at Kaer Morhen, twenty winters for Geralt to have poured out his hatred of the bard to his brothers – for him to have darkly muttered the same words that he roared at Jaskier. And the thought of others knowing just how long he had clung to a man that so obviously despised him... well. It made him feel even more humiliated than before. Something that Jaskier hadn’t thought possible. And it stung like salt in an old wound that refused to recognize its age and heal the fuck up already.

Lambert stood up, taking the dagger from Jaskier and placing it on the table, and for a moment Jaskier thought that would be the end of it. Lambert would take his things and leave without another word in silent solidarity with his brother against the man that had ruined his life so spectacularly.

“Interested in a proposal, bard?”

Jaskier blinked, turning his head to face Lambert, taking a moment more to consider his reply. “Depends on the nature of it. If it’s romantic, I hate to break your heart, but I’m married quite exclusively to my lute. And if it’s sexual I’m afraid my _scratch_ rather rules out that possibility as well – ”

“Pretty cocky, aren’t you?” The words were dry, but Jaskier could see the smirk curling Lambert’s lips.

“So, I’ve been told,” Jaskier returned, giving Lambert an overdramatic faux suggestive look. It made the witcher laugh, a warm and rough sound pulled deep from the witcher’s chest, that made Jaskier’s hair stand on end with the memories it conjured. 

Lambert must have caught some sort of minuscule cue, the sort that Jaskier couldn’t ever hope to control, because the laugh was a short one. And a gentleness that had Jaskier’s skin crawling made itself known in Lambert’s gaze. 

“Well?” Jaskier pushed himself back up into a sitting position carefully, gracing Lambert with an arched eyebrow and a smirk. “I’m listening.”

* * *

Lambert was... very different to Geralt.

At the very least, he threw into question Jaskier’s previous theory that all witchers were dour, miserable bastards that tried not to utter more than a single syllable at a time. The man talked often and openly and quite... _jovially_. Lambert’s tone was dry, though more often than not betrayed by the little sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Like when he handed Jaskier another ale when they’d both already had far too much or beat him at Gwent for the fifth time in a row. And, Jaskier had to admit, perhaps there is something to his supposed gift of foresight after all, because his proposal seems to be working out quite well for all involved. They travel together with ease, Lambert placing himself between Jaskier and any danger that the bard’s silver tongue or new dagger couldn’t get him out of, Jaskier sweet talking innkeepers into letting the two of them save their coin and the contract givers into parting with more of theirs.

He also composed the occasional ditty about Lambert’s adventures, small things at first – more short poems than songs, really. But once more and more of the months passed, and Jaskier felt he had a good fix on the man’s character, he started to truly compose again. He sung of battles won, of trickery overcome, and of a man with kindness hidden behind acerbic wit and armour almost as thick as the wall wrapped around his heart.

Lambert had refused to let him sing the last one in public when he finally heard it, claiming that it would ‘ruin his reputation’ or some such nonsense. Jaskier had rolled his eyes but acquiesced. After all, what was one song in exchange for the plethora of material Lambert had provided him with?

They spend the night before they go their separate ways tucked up in a room a lot like the first one that they ever shared. Jaskier idly strumming his lute as Lambert cleaned his swords. In the morning, Jaskier would head to Oxenfurt for the comforts of academia, and Lambert would make his way to the cold reach of Kaer Morhen to settle in for the winter. They hadn’t made plans to meet up after the spring thaw comes, and Jaskier found himself okay with that. The year had been fun, an adventure and a half, but part of any story is the end. And anyway, he’d more likely than not see Lambert at some point in the future, seeing as how he had reason now not to drop his plans and flee at the first mention of a witcher.

Besides, he could tell that Lambert was itching to travel on his own again, that familiar restlessness he’d witnessed in Geralt one too many times becoming that much more apparent over the past week. He would have been lying if he said it didn’t sting a bit, that his companion was so eager to leave him behind – _again_ – but really, it was just... who they are, wasn’t it? Witchers were solitary by nature, traveling alone rather than in pairs, no sense getting upset over a thing he had no power to change. At least, that was what he told himself.

“Jas.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier looked up from his lute to Lambert, who was nervously looking everywhere but Jaskier’s eyes. And despite all his rationalizations, Jaskier felt his heart sink.

Silence passed between them for a moment or two, before Jaskier broke it with a feather touch, his soft voice almost embarrassingly loud between them. “For all my many merits, Lambert, I’ve yet to become a mind reader, so –” Jaskier got up and walked over to him with an ease he didn’t feel, sitting beside him on the bed “– out with it, already.”

Lambert seemed to chew on whatever it was for a moment more before finally opening his mouth. “I came across something the other day, a device that allows one to keep the memory of a voice and play it whenever they wish.” He finally met Jaskier’s eyes. “I want to keep your song about me.” 

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed without coherent words for a moment, that heavy weight in his heart and stomach replaced by a dizzying confusion that sent him scrambling to get his bearings. “Right.” Jaskier stared at him for a moment before leaning back and cocking his head to the side. “Will you be taking my soul as well, oh, Sir Sea Witch?”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “The only danger to you is having a lousy performance recorded forever for all to hear.”

“How dare you, sir?” Jaskier’s hand flew to his chest in mock outrage. “I have never in my life given a performance that was anything short of flawless. Besides, I know the only ‘all’ you speak of is you and the others of Kaer Morhen.”

Lambert grimaced, before offering Jaskier a wry smile. “Am I really that easy to see through?”

“I could lie and say ‘only to a trained eye’ if you’d like. Try and save some of that precious pride of yours.” Jaskier leant back on his hands with a sigh. “As for your request, I’m more than happy to fulfil it. Just so long as you’re aware that this little plan of yours isn’t going to go as you hope.”

Lambert cocked his head to the side in a mockery of Jaskier’s previous movement. “And just what plan is that _, Sir Bard_?”

“Your plan to spend the winter annoying Geralt and turning him positively green with envy.” Jaskier closed his eyes briefly, his previous jovial air replaced by something more muted, old aches threatening to overwhelm for a moment before he pushed past them, opening his eyes and turning back to meet Lambert’s. “He’s never cared about having his name sung out across the Continent, and he won’t care that it’s your name now instead.”

“And if it’s not fame’s company that I’m aiming to make him envious of?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Then you’ve taken far too many knocks to the head, and whatever little sense you had has finally flown you for good.”

Lambert laughed. “Maybe, but sing for me anyway? And feel free to lord my failure over me when we meet again in the spring.”

Jaskier swallowed down the surprise and... pathetic gratitude that rose up within him at that. For having someone willing to stay, willing to spend more than five minutes with him without growling for him to leave. For someone willing to be a friend.

“You say that now,” Jaskier said, instead of giving voice to the complicated mess within his chest, “but come spring you’ll be drinking an ale for every ‘I told you so’ I give you.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I have a strong stomach.” Lambert nudged him with his shoulder impatiently. “Now hurry up and sing already, before I change my mind.”

“Ah, how fortunate, I didn’t realize we had all the time in the world.”

“Jaskier.”

“Lambert.”

_“Sing.”_

And he does.

* * *

Winter had barely given way to spring by the time Jaskier found himself waiting for Lambert at the inn with a tankard in hand and all his _I told you so’s_ ready on his tongue. Though the sun graced them with its presence on a daily rather than weekly basis, it brought only light and not warmth with it, and there remained a chill in the air that seeped right into the bones of anyone caught out in it without a cloak for too long. Still, the clouds brought rain more often than they did hail or snow, and the first buds of flowers were beginning to poke through the ground. A promise of future daisies and dandelions and buttercups that would soon have the dark, dreary landscape awash with vibrant colour.

So, when those first buds had poked through the ground, Jaskier had packed his things and made his way to an inn halfway between Oxenfurt and the mountains of Kaer Morhen, wrapped in as many layers as he could manage without falling over.

Now comfortably seated within the relative safety of the tavern, he blew on his spiced wine before taking a sip, relishing the warmth of it as it spread down his throat and throughout his chest. All the while wondering whether to deliver his remarks in order of their wit or the devastation that they would leave in their wake –

“Is this seat taken?”

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin at the breath in his ear, barely managing to keep from spilling his drink all over himself, turning to glare at the grinning perpetrator. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“Agreed?” Lambert hummed thoughtfully, taking the seat next to Jaskier without ceremony, gesturing to the barkeep for some spiced wine, “Talked about it maybe. Anything further than that must have slipped my mind.”

“Yet another reason to have your head examined,” Jaskier muttered, shaking his head before raising an eyebrow at Lambert. “So? How did your little plot go over?”

Rather than grumpy or defeated or down-right sour like Jaskier is expecting, there was an almost... nervous glint to Lambert’s eyes. “Remember that time I saved you from having your guts torn out by a wyvern?”

“I find near-death experiences have a habit of searing themselves into my mind so, no, not exactly a forgettable experience.” Jaskier found his eyebrow arching higher, brow beginning to furrow slightly in confusion. “Why?”

Lambert’s gaze shifted from Jaskier to the door and back. “Just... keep that in mind for me, will you?”

“What are you – ” Understanding hit Jaskier upside the head with all the force of a sledgehammer. “Haha, no. No no no no. No – no. Lambert. You did _not_ – ”

The door to the inn swung open, creaking noisily on its hinges, and Jaskier turned and watched a cloaked figure with all too familiar eyes meet his own.

And Jaskier – he wanted to run. Wanted nothing more in this world than to scramble off his bar seat, push Lambert towards the man and flee into the hills. Because the spiced wine had turned sour on his tongue and the wound that he had been so sure had healed throbbed with agony all new – so much so that he found himself checking the urge to search his chest for evidence of all the heartbreak he was hemorrhaging once again.

But then a smaller cloaked figure caught his attention. Their eyes lit up when they saw his, a smile on their lips as they made their way towards him. And all Jaskier’s plans for escape go down in brilliant flames. 

He smiled back openly, forcing the words through his teeth, “I’m going to stab you.”

“Give it your best shot,” Lambert said into his tankard, glancing at Jaskier out of the side of his eyes. The half-hearted smirk curling his lips was offset by the worried gleam in those eyes, and Jaskier had half a second to acknowledge that perhaps Lambert was feeling almost as awful about all this as he was before the figure finally reached them.

“Hello, Jaskier.”

Despite everything, at the sound of the familiar voice Jaskier felt his smile get that much wider.

“Hello, Ciri.”

* * *

“And... what happened next?”

Over the past few hours, Ciri had moved from sitting next to him to leaning against him; barely able to keep her eyes open as she mumbled the words into his shirt.

“What else?” Jaskier asked softly, a far cry from the sweeping hand gestures and emphatic enunciation he had performed for her at the beginning of the night. “She swung her blade down upon the creature at just the right place for her to free the damsel from its grasp. Catching her with ease, she spun to pierce the beast’s heart with her sword, with her own heart back safe in her arms.”

Ciri seemed satisfied with the story’s end, a smile pulling on her lips, but there was a shadow of something in her tired eyes that Jaskier couldn’t quite place. “And they lived happily ever after?”

“Gods, no,” Jaskier shook his head, wrinkling his nose. “Happily-ever-after is boring. No, the two of them gathered their wits and continued on their way together; slaying monsters and dancing under the moonlight as they went.”

Ciri’s eyes were closed now, and her words sounded half dragged from the realm of dreams, and about as coherent. “Sounds like a happy ending to me.”

“Oh, it’s happy alright. But it’s not a true end, merely a... a _prelude_ to all the tales yet to be told.” Jaskier looked down at her, heart aching at the fatigue on her face, and nudged her gently. “Tales that will have to wait for another night, I think.”

Ciri shook her head. “Just one more – ”

“Ciri.” Geralt stood, speaking his first words of the whole night, and moved over to Ciri and Jaskier’s side of the table. “Bed.”

Jaskier felt Ciri grip his shirt with all the strength of a dragon, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like a refusal before pressing her face further into his shoulder. 

“Come on,” He shifted her carefully towards Geralt, ignoring her protests, “up you go.”

It took some doing and they inevitably brushed against each other in the process, Jaskier trying very hard not to think about anything except the task at hand. Ignoring how their fingers brushed against each other, or how Geralt’s breath was so quiet even this close that Jaskier might have thought he was holding it if not for the slight movement of Geralt’s chest and shoulders. Eventually, Geralt had her secure in his arms, her head resting against his chest.

But one small hand still gripped Jaskier’s shirt. “Don’t go.”

Jaskier’s throat felt drier than it had in an age, and his answer was pulled from deep within him, somewhere dangerously close to his heart. “I won’t.” He reached out a hand to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Sweet dreams, Ciri.”

Ciri let out a contented hum, lip curling upwards slightly as the last of the tension slipped from her body and her hand fell from his shirt, allowing Geralt to escort her from the tavern.

Jaskier watched them disappear from sight with a tightness in his chest, waiting until a few moments had passed before speaking. “You know, I don’t recall any of this being a part of your little plot.”

Behind him, he heard Lambert shift slightly. “Jaskier –”

“Come to meet you at the inn, you said.” Jaskier turned to face him, hands clenched tightly. “ _You_. Not you and – and – and _him_ , I –”

“I’m not over the fucking moon about it either. But this isn’t my fault,” Lambert cut him off, his voice low, and Jaskier tried not to laugh at the thought of trying to keep this, any of it, from Geralt’s ears. “When I played the song, the girl recognized your voice from court and before I knew it, she and Geralt were dogging my heels as I made my way here. I tried to push them off, I swear, but they wouldn’t –”

Jaskier scoffed. “Months I hear you talk on and on about your talents and now all of a sudden slipping away from two people is too much for you?”

Lambert’s jaw clenched, eyes flaring, and Jaskier had time to feel a little vindictive thrill shoot up his spine before his expression shifted. And then those eyes were full of suffocating sympathy and Jaskier’s skin itched at the concerned set of the witcher’s jaw. “I can distract him for you, give you time to slip away – ”

“And what?” Jaskier laughed, harsh and discordant even to his own ears, and Lambert grew still at sound. “Break a promise to a child that has spent the past year having every other one ever made to her torn apart?”

Lambert shook his head. “She isn’t your responsibility. No one will blame you if you leave.”

“ _I_ will.”

Silence took over their conversation at that. Their little table, devoid of any noise, at odds with the drunken revelry that occupied the rest of the tavern.

“It’ll be a week, maybe two at most,” Jaskier said to himself, “the appeal of familiarity will wear off and then... then she’ll be done with me and we can all go our separate ways.”

“I’ll join you.” He turned to see that Lambert had moved to stand beside him, the witcher giving him a slight smirk, before nudging his shoulder gently. “Give you someone pretty to stare at while you’re stuck with the old man.”

Jaskier felt his lips twitch upwards despite himself, firmly ignoring the warmth in his chest that threatened to overwhelm his frustration. “If you think that’s all it’s going to take to make this whole mess up to me –”

“I know,” Lambert’s playful expression shifted into something more serious, “but let me try?”

Jaskier glared at him for a moment before the rest of the frustration finally slipped from his grasp with a heavy sigh. “I should’ve taken my chances with the wyvern.”

Lambert chuckled, and Jaskier headed over to the bar for another tankard of hot spiced wine to soothe both his throat and his nerves. All the while, he tried not to think about just how much he had missed Lambert’s laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Roach.”

Jaskier waited until he was sure they were alone to approach her, the others off collecting some wood so they could survive the coming night’s chill.

Roach greeted him with a soft nicker, bumping her head against him in a transparent attempt to search his pockets for treats, pawing at the ground with her hooves impatiently when she couldn’t smell any.

“Sorry, girl, I don’t have anything for you today. I know, I know,” he soothed when she snorted at him, giving Jaskier a look that reminded him of her rider, “how awful of me. Mark my words, the next time you see me my pockets will once again be filled will all the sugar cubes and apples your big horse heart could ever desire.”

“You’ll rot her teeth.”

For a moment, Jaskier thought he might have turned to stone, heart still in his chest, hand frozen in place on Roach’s nose as the mare acknowledged the second presence with a small snort. He wished desperately to be able to get away with such things too; to communicate without tripping over words that lacked the meaning needed to navigate his muddled sentiments.

“ _Well,_ a little tooth rot’s good for the soul.” Jaskier tried to shrug off the paralysis and all the feelings that came with it, glancing up where Geralt was standing with arms full of logs and kindling. “Where are Ciri and Lambert?”

“Looking for more wood.” Geralt set his pile down by their makeshift fire pit, and Jaskier hated the part of himself that relaxed ever so slightly now that he’d returned. The part that was still... _comforted_ at the sight of him. “I volunteered to go back with what we’d gathered.”

Jaskier gave Roach one last pat before moving over to inspect the pile, letting out a low whistle. “Wow. If they come back with half as much as that, then we’ll have enough for a proper bonfire.”

“Hmm.” Geralt started to arrange the kindling, and Jaskier made his way over to the opposite side of the makeshift fire pit. He settled in before digging around in his pack for a pen and some parchment to try and make himself look busy while they waited. Anything so he didn’t have to look at the way Geralt’s hair was still tied back in the same way it’d always been, eyes just as sharp and golden. As though neither time nor anything else had passed between them since that day on the mountain. 

“Ciri said you’d been to court.”

It was a question, for all it sounded like a statement, and Jaskier paused his rummaging to look back up at Geralt as he continued. “She recognized your voice. With the... song you sung... for Lambert.”

“Well,” Jaskier sent him a smile despite the hollowed out feeling in his chest, “can’t exactly blame me for being curious, can you? Besides, you know me, never one to shy away from a good story. Or good coin.”

“Or good wine.” Geralt’s eyes met his from across the fire. “Little of that in following Lambert around.”

Jaskier held his gaze evenly, lips curling upwards in a show of humor that didn’t reach his eyes. “And yet, I got along just fine when I was following you around; without wine or a great deal of other things. Besides –” Jaskier finally pulled the pen and parchment from his pack, “– the man saved me from a wyvern. That alone earns him a song or two.”

“Eighteen.” Geralt said, voice low, “He says you wrote him eighteen.”

And really, what an exasperating lot witchers were. For all their skills and mutations their heads were remarkable thick and they were just as likely to go behind a muck-cart and think it a wedding than they were to slay a beast. Or, to complain about attention and notoriety until someone else was the object of fame’s affections.

“Careful, Geralt. In this light, your eyes look a lot more green than gold.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked as though he might fire back his own stunningly witty repartee, or at least growl something threatening in Jaskier’s general direction, but then he simply shifted his gaze to glare at the fire instead. Jaskier sent the flames silent words of support, lest they flicker and fade under the pressure of Geralt’s eyes upon them.

They sit for a while in silence, Jaskier penning a few poems that will never be turned into lyrics, but getting them out helped exorcise the petty vindictiveness possessing his creativity. And no, it was not at all telling that all of said poems pertained to the myriad different ways Geralt could go and –

“Is she different?”

Jaskier’s quill stopped and he looked up at Geralt, who seemed to have taken a breath or two, or eighteen, in the break in their conversation. The tension in his body had eased, to the point that he appeared as he did when he first came back from the woods. “Ciri. Is she... different? From how you knew her?”

Jaskier thought back to the princess he sang to from across a crowded ballroom. The one that he whispered jokes, sent winks and told epic tales to when he ran into her roaming around the city in her various disguises. “Not really. Quieter, maybe. Then again, I suppose that’s to be expected given... everything.”

“Hmm.” The firelight framed a fatigue on Geralt’s face that made Jaskier’s chest ache, and the words were out of his mouth before he’d made the decision to speak them.

“She’s happy with you,” Jaskier said softly, a nostalgic smile pulling at his lips, and Geralt raised his eyes from the fire to look at him. “Believe me, you’d know if she wasn’t. Has she told you what she did to the first boy who asked her to dance?” Geralt gave his head a slight shake, and Jaskier continued. “Well, he was a massive prat to be honest, kept stepping on her feet and blaming her for it. Said she was ‘getting underfoot’ on purpose to make him look bad. Now, one bad dance, that’s one thing, but he kept on coming back and asking her for another, and another, and his footwork never got any better. So finally, it’s their fourth dance of the evening and he steps on her foot for what must be at least the hundredth time, and he’s halfway through blaming her for it, again, when – _bam!_ ” Jasker made a grand swinging motion with his arm. “She knocks him upside the head with an uppercut truly worthy of the lion cub of Cintra. And he just _drops_. Swear I saw some of his teeth go flying. Meanwhile, Ciri just blinks at him, all innocent like, and apologizes for _‘getting underfoot’_.”

Geralt chuckled, low and soft. “Sounds like her.” He raised an eyebrow at Jaskier. “I’m surprised you haven’t turned it into a ballad.” 

“I could never find the right melody,” Jaskier shrugged, waving a hand errantly. “Besides, some tales are too beautiful to turn into prose. They deserve to be told in person.” 

“Even if it means one day they’ll disappear?” Geralt asked.

“A story doesn’t have to live forever to be important,” Jaskier said. “All it needs to do is give comfort to one person, for one moment.” 

Geralt looked at him for a long while, something deep and unreadable and impossibly old in his eyes, and Jaskier thought about all he times he’d wished he could drown in them, if ever given the chance. And with a soft, slowly dawning understanding, Jaskier realized that he no longer wanted to.

Instead, he looked away, turning back to his parchment. “Well, hopefully the two of them haven’t fallen into a ditch or something. I’d hate to have to fish them out of some godforsaken fox hole –”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier stared at the parchment without seeing it, body held carefully tight and still as his mind whirred at those two words.

“For the mountain, and what happened. What I said.” Geralt seemed to fumble for words for a moment, the first time Jaskier had ever seen him struggle so. “What I did... it wasn’t fair.”

“No,” Jaskier said softly, “it wasn’t.”

Something strangely similar to guilt seemed to take over Geralt’s face, and he shifted forward slightly. “Jaskier –”

“Sorry we’re late,” Lambert stepped into the clearing, Ciri beside him, his arms full of twice as much logs, sticks and twigs as Geralt had brought back, “Princess here insisted on making it a competition, and, well –”

“I won,” Ciri told them, eyes gleaming with pride as she came to sit beside Geralt.

“Barely,” Lambert grunted, dumping the pile next to the one Geralt made before sitting down next to Jaskier, bumping their knees together in a silent greeting. And whatever comfort Jaskier had felt at Geralt’s return was nothing compared to the way his body was soothed by the gentle pressure of Lambert’s knee against his.

Jaskier pushed away the last five minutes, and the emotions they had brought with them, turning to aim an arched eyebrow at Lambert. “I see they included the mutation that makes you a sore loser.”

“Seems so,” Lambert agreed shamelessly, giving Jaskier a crooked grin that made a soft, gentle warmth uncurl in his chest before nudging his shoulder playfully. “What’s your excuse?”

“ _I_ am _not_ a sore loser.”

“Except when Valdo Marx won that poetry thing of yours.”

“You mean when he _bought_ it with far too much coin and a truly disgusting amount of

arse k – ” Jaskier cut himself off with a cough “- in any case, that was an exception, not the rule.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, though with a touch of fondness. “Whatever you say, Jas.”

And Jaskier wasted no time in launching into a rather lengthy, but meticulously thorough, rebuttal to that. Noting with some frustration that despite his very compelling arguments, Lambert’s smug look remained firmly in place. Ciri also seemed to find the whole thing rather amusing, judging by the smirk that curled her lips as she watched the scene play out. And as for Geralt, well, each time their eyes met across the flames, it got a little easier to hold that gaze. And when they did so, Jaskier was relieved to find that he no longer felt that decade old deep pang of longing in his gut.

* * *

“Finest silver you’ll find in these parts!”

Jaskier made a face, turning the ring over in his fingers, “Yes, well. If you can call anything remotely silver-coloured _silver_.”

The merchant gave him a dirty look, and Jaskier put the ring back down quickly with a nervous cough, scanning the rest of the offerings in an excuse to not to make eye contact with the man. Next to him, Ciri’s lips twitched into a smirk beneath her hood, and he found himself lamenting, not for the first time, the lack a growly witcher at their side. The two of them had been left to their own devices while both Geralt and Lambert hunted yet another beast with far too many teeth. If all went according to plan, their two groups should be meeting up again in the tavern tonight, and Jaskier could get all the details from Lambert and, if he was extremely lucky, a new song by midnight. 

For now, though, he and Ciri still had an hour or so to kill between them. And he was about to suggest they spend it elsewhere, perhaps in the bookshop he had caught of glimpse of earlier, when his eyes caught on another item in the merchant’s hoard.

It was an earring, made of amber shaped into the likeness of a raindrop, with the upper portion wrapped in curling tendrils of silver. Looking at it, he could already imagine five outfits that it would work marvellously with, and his fingers were halfway to it when he saw Ciri’s already running over a different item.

“See something you like?” Jaskier asked, shifting closer and peering at the item in question: a finely crafted pendant of a bird of some sort. A swallow, perhaps.

Ciri didn’t answer, but she didn’t take her hands away from the necklace either.

Jaskier felt something in his chest clench, and before he could think any further, he was meeting the merchant’s eyes and nodding his head towards the necklace. “How much for the necklace and the earring, my good sir?”

Ciri’s head moved so fast that Jaskier was half-worried it might snap off her neck, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Ten crowns,” The merchant told him, eyes hard and arms crossed in a way that made Jaskier think that any attempt to haggle might not have been necessarily the best idea.

Still, ten crowns was hardly cheap, especially given the quality of the items, and Jaskier could already feel his pockets emptying of all the coin he had managed to make the past two nights performing at the tavern. So, he shifted his posture slightly, opening the top of his jacket wider with a quick, almost imperceptible, movement of his hand. “Two crowns.”

The merchant’s scowl didn’t so much as twitch. “Ten.”

“Two,” Jaskier gave the widest smile he could manage, “and you’ll be rid of us.”

For a good moment, Jaskier swore the merchant looked extremely tempted, before his jaw hardened and his eyes were back to that immovable glare. “Ten crowns. And I won’t knock you on your arse when you go.”

“Two,” Jaskier’s smile lost its good will, really more of a barring of teeth than anything else, “And I promise not to tell any guard I pass on my way that you’re selling stolen Piękno Jewelry.”

The blood drained from the merchant’s face in an instant, and Jaskier was fairly certain a gentle breeze would have been enough to knock the man over.

The merchant swallowed, throat working thickly, the arms crossed over his chest suddenly appearing more for defense than intimidation. “Three.”

“Done!” Jaskier dropped the coins into the merchant’s hands, and the man quickly gathered their jewelry into two small pouches before handing them over. Jaskier took them happily, ignoring the furious glare from the man, and turned to face Ciri with a triumphant smile. “Shall we?”

Ciri grinned up at him with something between wonder and bewilderment, taking the arm offered to her as the two of them began to make their way through the streets back to the inn. “How did you know they were stolen?”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier pocketed the pouches carefully, “there was a big _heist_ , as it were, on a Piękno jewelry shop about a year or two back. It was all they could talk about at court, or anywhere there was any money and influence, really. Besides, people have a habit of not noticing you when they’re paying coin for your services. Except in certain, very specific cases that you’ll have to remind me to tell you about when you’re older – ”

“I’m not a child, Jaskier,” Ciri interrupted, giving him a very good impression of one of Calanthe’s infamous glares.

“We are all of us the children of fate, my dear,” Jaskier intoned, giving her a playful nudge, “ever at the mercy of her fanciful whims.”

Ciri rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a slight smile all the same.

Jaskier grinned back at her, “Which reminds me, I still haven’t told you about the time Aleks Kaminski and I stole our professor’s stuffed wyvern head and replaced it with –”

“Halt!”

Jaskier’s blood froze in his veins, and he tightened his grip on Ciri instinctively as they drew to an immediate stop.

A soldier stepped out from a nearby alley, and Jaskier felt the most fleeting sensation of relief before he took in the colours they were wearing and had to stop himself from cursing instead.

“Ah, hello, there. What a wonderful surprise to see a Nilfgaardian so far north. Come to take in the sights, I take it – ?”

“I am Lieutenant Nowak of His Eminence’s Imperial Army,” the soldier delivered the title like it was anything to be impressed by, eyes flicking from Jaskier to where Ciri had shifted slightly behind him, lowering her head to try and keep her face concealed. “Identify yourselves.”

“Of course, where are our manners? Julian Alfred, and my daughter Zireael, at your, uh, service.” Jaskier gave an awkward half bow, caught between showing deference and keeping as much of Ciri from sight for as long as he could.

Nowak’s eyes narrowed. “ _Your_ daughter?”

“Yes. Takes after her mother.” Jaskier resisted the urge to shuffle restlessly underneath the soldier’s gaze. “Is there anything we can help you with?”

“Funny. People we spoke to didn’t say anything about a woman,” Nowak took a step closer, hand already on his hilt, and Jaskier pushed Ciri and himself back in turn, “word at the tavern is that you’re traveling with two witchers.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat and he struggled to swallow it back down. “Well, I’m afraid she’s already passed on, almost five years past. And as for what those good people are the tavern told you, all I can tell you is that ale was flowing so, ah, very, _very_ freely when we arrived. I can see why their memories might be a little, ah, muddled. But, I can assure you, my husband and his brother are no witchers.”

Nowak stops his advance, staring at Jaskier. “Husband?”

“Yes,” Jaskier nods. “For, oh, about... three years now? Feels like a lifetime if I’m honest with you. Couldn’t imagine my life without him.”

“And your husband just _happens_ to have white hair and golden eyes?” Nowak asked, eyebrows raised, but his hand had moved from the hilt of his sword back to his side.

“Light brown eyes, actually,” - Jaskier worked to keep his voice from wavering, though how much he actually succeeded was anyone’s guess - “though, I could see how they might appear gold in the dim light of a tavern, especially when one was well into their cups. And as for his hair, my husband, much as I adore the man, has rather little to offer in that department. So, I assume you’re referring to my husband’s brother, he is getting on in years after all. That’s why we’re traveling, you see. We’re headed for our holdings in Toussaint before the next winter sets in.”

Nowak grunted. “Traveling all that distance just so an old man’s bones don’t creak?”

“Yes, well, what one does for family and all that,” Jaskier returned with a rather forced laugh, clearing his throat slightly before continuing, “So, if there’s nothing further we can help you with, we’ll just – ”

Nowak held out a hand, keeping them in place, and Jaskier thought about where his dagger would land to the most effect. His letter opener may not have been enough to stop the man, but he could buy Ciri some time –

“The girl can leave,” Nowak nods towards Ciri. “If what you say is true, she’ll find your... _husband_ and his brother with the rest of our men at the tavern.

Artful lies were all well and good, but they meant fuck all if those soldiers met Lambert and Geralt at the tavern and got a good look at their ‘light brown eyes’ for themselves.

“In the meantime,” Nowak continued, unaware of the rapidly rising panic clawing at Jaskier’s lungs, “you’ll come with me. Tell your story to the captain.”

Jaskier felt like he might as well have swallowed the entirety of The Oxenfurt Academy’s chalk supply, mouth and throat horrifically dry. “Right, well,” he gave Ciri a slight nudge, “go meet up with your father then, love.”

Ciri’s grip on him tightened. “Not without you.”

“You’ll survive the trip without him, girl.” Nowak moved forward brusquely, hand already reaching out to tear Ciri away, but Jaskier dodged the movement while managing to make it seem like it was completely accidental. Thanking the gods for the first time in his life that his dancing instructor had been so infamously passive aggressive.

Jaskier squatted down in front of her. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise. Until then –” he took the two pouches from his pocket, placing them in her palm and closing her fingers into a gentle fist around them “– keep these safe for me, would you?”

Ciri looked like she was about to protest further, but Jaskier gave her a pleading look and her mouth snapped shut; lips pressing into a thin line as she turned and fled down the cobblestone street.

Jaskier felt some of the tension seep from him now that Ciri was no longer in reach of this man and his steel, turning to look at Nowak and gesturing for him to lead the way. “After you.”

Nowak just looked at him until Jaskier got the message, retracting his hand. He stepped in front of Nowak, allowing the lieutenant to grab his arm and drag him away.

Jaskier’s mind whirred as they walked, trying to make sense of it all. Nilfgaard soldiers shouldn’t have been this far north – shouldn’t have been _north_ at all. Perhaps they had snuck through some sort of secret trail that hadn’t required them to take the bridge. _Or_ , perhaps they had made their own bridge. And wasn’t _that_ a terrifying thought all on its own.

In any case, their little quartet would have to stick to the road less travelled from now on. Which meant less coin for Jaskier, but more contracts for Lambert and Geralt, so, between the three of them they should still be able to scrounge together enough coin to take care of Ciri. That is, if they manage to get out of this.

His mind conjured images of blood splattered across the floor as light faded from golden eyes, and he shoved down the thoughts viscously, even as his heart clenched at the sight of them. Lambert’s been in far more dire straits than this, Jaskier right along with him for most of them, and they’d always managed to make it out. Perhaps with a few bumps and scrapes, but overall, no worse for wear. And there’s nothing to suggest this time will be any different. In fact, he was fairly certain that Lambert just plainly refused to die. The man was like a buzzing gnat in that way, or one of Valdo Marx’s insipidly composed poems. Besides, Lambert had Geralt with him. and if The White Wolf could handle a great bloody fire-breathing dragon, then a few soldiers should be nothing in comparison.

Screams rippled the air around them, dragging Jaskier out of his thoughts with a sickening wrench of his stomach, followed by the sound of footsteps fleeing every which way, and Jaskier instinctually stopped. Nowak had been leading the two of them down a back alley when the pandemonium started, and before either of them could think to rush out into the main street, the only exit was suddenly blocked by another Nilfgaardian solider. Only... this one was wearing a lot more red than the one behind him. Red that was flowing from the stump where his left arm presumably used to reside, and recently at that, staining the cobblestones below.

“Lieutenant... ” The man rasped out, “Witchers. Tavern. They were – ” His eyes rolled back into his head and then he’s dropping, hitting the ground with an awful thud that settles in Jaskier’s gut. The soldier twitching one last time before going very, very still.

Jaskier should move, he knew that, should run as fast as his feet could carry him. But his feet seemed as stuck to the floor as his eyes were stuck to the man’s body, and it took several crucial seconds for him to pull himself together enough to wrench himself out of Nowak’s grip and force himself toward the main street.

He was almost there when the hand reaches out and snags the back of his shirt.

With a brutality that left his head reeling, he was pulled back into the alley and shoved against the wall hard enough that the edges of the brick dug painfully into his back.

“ _You_ ,” Nowak snarled, “you _lied_ to me.”

“Actually, I prefer the term _improvised_ – ”

Jaskier was cut off as Nowak wrapped a hand around his neck.

“I am going to _gut_ you,” Nowak promised, low and harsh, and Jaskier saw black spots dance in and out of his vision as the grip tightened. His own hands came up instinctually, trying desperately to pry off the hand cutting off the air his burning lungs were screaming for. “I am going to kill that girl of yours, and your damn witchers and then, oh, _then_ –”

Jaskier kept tugging at the grip, cursing himself for deciding to store his dagger in his boot, and kicked the side of the man’s kneecap with all his strength. 

Nowak toppled to the ground, his grip dropping in an instant, but so did Jaskier.

He hit the ground hard, body trembling as he gasped in lungful after lungful of air, hand shaking as he reached into his boot –

“Son of a – ”

Nowak lunged for him just as Jaskier’s hands wrapped around the hilt of his dagger.

In the end, Jaskier didn’t so much as stab Nowak as the lieutenant ran into his dagger, the knife sinking through a weak spot in the side of his armor. They both seemed equally shocked about it, staring at the hot blood as it ran over the hilt and onto Jaskier. His fingers felt slippery with it and part of him wondered if he ought to tighten his grip or not, when Nowak shifted ever so slightly and suddenly Jaskier’s hand was moving and there was so, _so_ , much more blood, and Nowak’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head as he collapsed to the side of Jaskier and everything was wet and _red red red_ –

Jaskier’s eyes snapped closed as he pressed his other hand to his mouth, taking a deep, shuddering breath in through his nose. His grip on the dagger’s hilt so tight that it bordered on painful. He forced his eyes open as he breathed out, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed and nearly lost his balance as soon as he did so, but just about managed it because... because he had to move, had to get out of here, away from the wet and the red and back to – back to –

He ran right into a solid mass of armor and muscle and his hand was already bringing up the dagger when a hand caught his wrist, holding it in place.

“Jaskier!”

He looked up into familiar golden eyes, and his legs threatened to collapse beneath him once again.

“Lambert.” His hand released the dagger, and it clattered to the stones below as his shoulders sagged with relief.

Lambert didn’t seem to share the same sense of relief, eyes wide and panicked as he took in the deep red stain on the front of Jaskier’s doublet. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He didn’t wait for an answer, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet. It took Jaskier a moment to realize what he was doing, but he managed it in time to catch Lambert’s wrist and stop him from turning his already ruined doublet into rags.

“It’s not mine, it’s, uh – ” Jaskier swallowed, closing his eyes briefly against the wave of red that threatened to overwhelm him “– it’s not mine.”

Lambert’s eyes met his, and then and only then did the man relax, shoulders slumping with it. He closed his eyes with a sigh and leant forward, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s, and took in a deep breath through his nose. His hands held Jaskier’s shoulders tightly, holding the two of them close together as though if he didn’t Jaskier would somehow disappear in the space between now and when he next opened his eyes. But Jaskier didn’t have any room to complain there, because he reached forward and curled his fingers around the loops of Lambert’s belt as though to try and keep him there too. Jaskier breathed in deep through his nose to take in the scent of leather armor, sword varnish, and the barest traces of the lavender soap Jaskier had insisted on buying for him three months into their travels together.

The moment must only have been that, a moment, but it felt like it lasted for centuries,

Jaskier’s heart beat steadying as he breathed in the familiar scent of Lambert over and over again, the gentle pressure of their foreheads pressed together grounding him.

Eventually, Lambert drew back, and Jaskier was forced to release his hold on the belt loops to let him go. It felt as if Lambert took a piece of Jaskier with him as he stepped back, leaving Jaskier feeling oddly cold and hollow without the soft pressure of their skin against one another. 

“We need to get out of here,” Lambert told him, “damn Nilfs have taken over the whole fucking city. Geralt and Ciri are waiting for us in the woods, we – ” He stopped, staring at Jaskier, “What the fuck happened to your neck?”

Jaskier blinked at him, and then as the adrenaline began to fade from his body a painful ache reminded him of Nowak’s hand wrapped around his throat.

He shook his head, wincing as the motion pulled on the abused skin, “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lambert repeated, voice flat but with an edge that matched the rage burning in his golden eyes, “Bullshit.” He stepped closer, body wound as tight as Jaskier had ever seen him, hands clenched into fists at his side as he snapped the words at Jaskier, “Who did this to you? I want their name, looks, clothing, everything – ”

“All of which would be beyond fucking useless, seeing as how they’re dead,” Jaskier snapped back, “and we will be too if we don’t make ourselves scarce.”

Lambert didn’t move, jaw clenched, and his hands held so tightly at his side that they shook with the force of it.

“Lambert,” Jaskier reached forward, taking one of those fists and carefully uncurling it until their fingers were intertwined, “we need to go.”

Lambert stared at him before nodding, ever so slightly, and tightening his grip on Jaskier’s hand.

And then, they ran.

* * *

They managed to make it out of the city and to Geralt and Ciri without too much interference, Lambert easily cutting down any that springs up. Ciri had obviously been intending to lay into him when he arrived, but one look at his neck and all the fight had gone out of her in an instant. Instead, she had wrapped her arms around him tight enough to chase any air he’d had left from their flight out of his lungs. But he couldn’t really blame her, because he was pretty sure he had gripped her back just as tight.

Geralt had glared at him and then forced some absolutely foul ‘healing draft’ down his throat. Singing was apparently off the table for the foreseeable future, which was its own kind of devastation to hear, but at least he could still strum his lute. 

Lambert had been the strangest of them all, barely waiting until Geralt had forced the draft down Jaskier’s throat before stalking off into the forest with a vague mutter about getting more wood to keep the fire going. Completely ignoring the huge pile of wood already sitting at the edge of their camp as he passed it. Jaskier had thought about following him, but he had already sat down at that point and didn’t think there was much chance of being able to stand back up again without falling over. So he’d let him go, despite the uncomfortable twisting of his gut.

Now, Ciri slept tucked up in her bedroll, breaths coming slow and even, Geralt rearranging their packs so the horses would have an easier ride tomorrow. Not necessarily easy to pack efficiently when fleeing for your lives and all, and Roach had definitely let her displeasure with the uncomfortable retreat be known. Though, she had seemed pacified by the sugar cubes that Jaskier had slipped her as he combed her hair out.

Lambert still had yet to return, and Jaskier was trying not to think too hard about that when he heard movement to his left, and turned to see Geralt sitting down next to him at the fire. “Finished, then?”

“Hmm.” Geralt stoked the fire, tossing some more twigs on for good measure.

Jaskier sighed. “One of these days, Geralt, you’re going to deliver some epic, world-altering soliloquy and I assure you that when that day comes everyone that hears it will expire from the shock.”

“Even you?” Geralt asked dryly.

Jaskier grinned at him. “Of course not! Someone has to chronicle this once in a lifetime event – turn it into a proper ballad and all that. I – ” He got cut off by a series of coughs, his throat protesting against its further use, and Geralt pushed a waterskin into his hands.

“Rest your voice,” Geralt told him, lips twitching slightly, placing a hand on Jaskier’s back to steady him as he drinks, “or else they’ll be no one to sing it.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but acquiesced, after all, his throat _was_ feeling rather sore, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence for a while.

Jaskier glanced down at the waterskin in his hands, turning it slightly as the fire cast an amber glow on his fingers. “Does it ever get any easier?”

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Taking a life.”

Geralt paused, and Jaskier used to the time to look at his hands, telling himself firmly that

they were clean of the blood that had stuck to them, no matter how much he felt otherwise.

“No,” Geralt took the waterskin from his hands gently, “and if it does, it’s more curse than blessing.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hummed, “and you’re the expert in breaking curses. In killing monsters.” Geralt met his eyes, “So are you.”

It brought more comfort than it should, a made a lump gather in Jaskier’s throat so that the only reply he could give was a grateful nod. Geralt didn’t seem to mind, however, and silence fell over them again they sat there together, staring into the fire.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier blinked himself back to some form of awareness, the day had just begun to catch up with him and the warmth of the fire had made his start to droop. “For what? If it’s about the whole... _mountain mess_ , then you’ve already said so. No sense repeating yourself – ”

“Isn’t there?” Geralt raised his eyes to meet Jaskier’s, and the sight of the guilt still shining within them rendered Jaskier momentarily speechless.

However, he managed to recover quickly. 

“ _No_ , there isn’t, you thick-headed fool,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, “because I’ve already forgiven you. Took me a bit, if I’m honest, but... look, I forgive you. Now do me a favour and forgive yourself.”

Geralt’s eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise, but Jaskier didn’t falter beneath the scrutiny, meeting that gaze with a wry smile.

“Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’m bloody exhausted. So, I think I’ll turn in for the night.” Jaskier forced himself to stand, offering Geralt one last smile. “Goodnight, Geralt, sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

Jaskier acknowledged the farewell with a slight wave of his hand, making his way over to his bedroll and crawling gratefully into it without another word. His dreams were discordant, unaligned things, images shifting in and out of focus and never staying in one place. The one solid point during the night was a hand tenderly cupping his face. And when Jaskier pressed his face further into the touch, the smell of lavender soothed him back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, what do you think? Still like it? Or should we melt it down for earrings? Or – or a brooch! Or a – ”

“It’s perfect,” Ciri smiled at him, letting go of the silver swallow around her neck and walking over to him, “and so is yours.”

Jaskier preened, tilting his head to show off the gleam of amber and silver proudly before dropping into a low and sweeping bow. “Thank you kindly, my lady. I knew someone with taste so discerning as yours would appreciate it’s beauty.”

Lambert snorted loudly from over where he was cleaning his swords, shooting Jaskier look that the bard resolutely ignored as he extended a hand towards Ciri.

“Perhaps you could do me the honour of a dance? Don’t worry,” he winked at her, “I promise not to step on your feet.”

Ciri gave him a look of her own, but took his hand with all the primness of a princess clothed in enough silk and jewels to feed the continent twice over. Even though their grand ballroom was nothing more than the remains of a long-abandoned hunting cottage. Still, it was a roof over their heads, a respite from the pouring rain outside, with space enough for a few sideways steps and twirls. And Jaskier was nothing if not an optimist.

“This is... harder without the music,” Ciri said, looking up at Jaskier with a shrug, “but at least this way no one can tell if you miss a step.”

“With our present company, I’m fairly certain we could trip over our own feet and they still wouldn’t notice anything amiss,” Jaskier murmured back.

Ciri glanced over to where Geralt was leaning against the opposite wall, cleaning his own swords, and a truly devilish glint took over her eyes. “Care to make a wager?”

“Gambling is a terrible habit, my lady,” Jaskier grinned back at her. “What did you have in mind?” 

“I bet I can get Geralt to dance.”

“Interesting,” Jaskier led her through a twirl, “and if you fail?”

“I’ll convince Geralt to buy those expensive soaps you like,” Ciri leveled a proud smirk at him, “and _when_ I win, you have to write a song about me.”

“Hm,” Jaskier considered it, leading Ciri though a spin, “deal.”

“Switch!” She called, grinning at Jaskier as she dropped his hands and raced over to

Geralt, who finally looked up from his swords at the commotion. Jaskier watched her try and cajole Geralt onto his feet, smirking at Geralt’s consternated expression.

“Well, _my lord_ ,” a dry voice intoned, “I guess that leaves you and me.”

Jaskier turned to see Lambert in a half bow, eyebrow raised and holding his hand out for Jaskier’s.

Jaskier made a show of sniffing haughtily and putting his nose up in the air. “And what makes you think I’d give you the pleasure of a dance, you rogue?”

“My dashing good looks, my roguish charm,” Lambert took Jaskier’s hand, tugging him close enough to place a hand on his waist, “the lack of any other partners.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, a fond smirk curling his lips as the two began to move, and he soon found that to his surprise, Lambert was actually a fairly decent dancer.

“I’d accuse you of holding back on me if we’d ever been to a party together,” Jaskier told him, “As it is, I only regret that we never got the chance to show off your skills.”

Lambert grinned at him. “There’s still time. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, bard, but I have at least a few good years left in me.”

“Tell that to your hair.”

Lambert’s face underwent a very impressive twitch. “I told you. I keep it short on purpose.”

“Of course, you do.” Jaskier soothed, and found himself led through a dizzying series of twirls that had him laughing even as his head spun.

Eventually, Lambert steadied him, leading him through some more muted steps until the room stopped shifting around them and Jaskier felt steady on his feet once more.

“Your earring looks good.”

“Doesn’t it?” Jaskier tilted his head to the side to better show it off, “The merchant wanted a small fortune for it, but I managed to convince him to lower the price thanks to my great haggling abilities and unravelled charm. The likes of which – ”

“Ciri said you blackmailed him.”

“Same thing, really.”

Lambert chuckled before his expression sobered as his eyes fell to the yet-to-fade bruises on Jaskier’s neck. “How’s your throat?”

“Almost good as new,” Jaskier grinned at him with a teasing glint in his eyes, “I’ll soon be gracing your ears with my magnificent and melodious tunes once more.” 

“I look forward to it,” Lambert gently led him through another twirl. “I still have the recording you made, but nothing beats one of your live performances. 

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him, looking for any hint that Lambert was being less than sincere. But, much to his surprise, Lambert appeared entirely genuine. “What, really?”

“Is it such a surprise to find I think you’re good at what you do?” Lambert asked. “I can’t count how many times you’ve told me how magnificent you are.”

And yes, well, it was one thing for Jaskier to say so about himself. But to hear it fall from someone else’s lips in a genuine compliment with no other motive other than to inform him of their honest opinion – no honey-sweet words designed to try and cajole him into a dark corner or an empty room – then, well. That was another matter entirely. Jaskier opened his mouth to tell Lambert so when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eyes.

He turned his head to see Ciri slowly but surely leading Geralt through the steps. There was a wonderful gentleness to Geralt’s eyes he looked down at her, and it made something soft and warm unfold in Jaskier’s chest and brought a smile to his face.

“I guess I owe her a song now,” Jaskier sighed, turning back to Lambert, but his smile faltered at the furrowed brow that greeted him. “What’s wrong?”

“A week, you said,” Lambert took them a few steps further from Geralt and Ciri, towards the other corner of the cottage, “it’s been three.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier dropped his eyes from Lambert, the floor suddenly so much more intriguing. In fact, was that moss he saw poking through the floorboards? “That was before... well, you know, everything.”

Before Nilfgaard had found them, before they had spent the past week on the run, avoiding towns and well-traveled roads for the anonymity of the wilderness and overgrown trails. Before Jaskier had driven a dagger into the side of another human being and pulled out their soul with a sick squelching sound.

“All the more reason to leave now,” Lambert replied, and his tone took on a hard edge that Jaskier had never heard aimed at him before. “Every second with them makes us more and more likely to lose our heads.”

“We can’t just – ” Jaskier lowered his voice before continuing “– we can’t leave them!

They _need_ us. I can’t believe you’d abandon them to fucking _Nilfgaard_ –”

“Geralt can handle himself,” Lambert cut him off, his voice just as low and quiet, but with an even fiercer hissed edge than Jaskier’s, “the bastard always comes out just fine. But the people around him don’t.”

Jaskier glared at him. “It’s not his fault – ”

“I don’t care,” Lambert snapped back, pulling Jaskier closer to him as the two continued their dance, “I’m not going to lose you. Especially not to a fight that isn’t even ours.”

Jaskier stared at him, caught between the warmth blooming through his chest and the sharp sense of _not right_ pounding through his veins, “Lambert – ”

“Switch!”

Ciri cut in between the two of them, grabbing Lambert and dragging him away to dance with her, leaving Jaskier stumbling over his own feet and right into Geralt.

“Ah.” Jaskier drew back slightly. “Sorry about that. Thank you, though. For catching me. I didn’t much fancy my chances with the floor.”

“Not many bards with crooked noses?” Geralt asked, reaching forward and placing a hand on Jaskier’s waist.

Jaskier laughed, taking Geralt’s other hand in his and beginning to lead them through the dance. “Oh, I imagine there are several. Bread certainly isn’t the worst thing people have been known to throw after a bad performance.”

“Hmm.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “And the worst you’ve had thrown at you?”

Jaskier leant in closer, lowering his voice to a dread-filled whisper. “Valdo Marx’s poetry collection.”

Geralt actually laughed at that, a low, quiet chuckle that drew a smile from Jaskier in turn. “See you’re still his number one fan.”

Jaskier gave him a faux affronted look. “What have I done to you to deserve such a grave and terrible insult?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, moving through the steps together. Geralt wasn’t _terrible_ at this, but he was a great deal slower than Lambert, and Jaskier made sure not to lead him through any complicated twists and turns.

“Ciri says this is a hell of a lot easier with music.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt, you’re not doing so bad,” Jaskier teased. “In fact, you’re following along quite nicely. _And_ , you’ve yet to step on anyone’s foot.”

“I feared what might happen if I did,” Geralt said dryly.

Jaskier laughed. “Quite. I can’t speak for our princess, but I promise not to return your missteps with uppercuts. Or, by stamping on _your_ foot, like my dance instructor used to. Mr. Veol was his name; dreadfully ill-tempered man. You wouldn’t believe the bruised, bloody messes my feet were by the time his _‘lessons’_ were over.”

“Can’t imagine you ever being bad at this,” Geralt commented, and whereas two years ago it might have made a slight flush creep up Jaskier’s neck and into his cheeks, now it only filled him with a great sense of pride.

“Well, as they say: practice makes perfect,” Jaskier smirked. “And if Ciri has her way, I suspect you’ll have more opportunities to practice than you could ever need.”

Geralt gave another heavy sigh, and after a slight chuckle from Jaskier in turn the two fell into another comfortable silence. Geralt seemingly focused on getting the remaining steps of their dance right, and Jaskier content to allow him the space to do so.

“We would be alright.”

Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes again, brow furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

“We would be alright,” Geralt repeated, gently taking the lead in their dance, “if you wanted to go.”

Jaskier stared at him as his mind worked to connect the dots, guilt twisting his stomach when it finally managed to do so. “Geralt. Lambert, he didn’t – ”

“I know,” Geralt told him, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “But he’s right, it is more dangerous with us. And the two of us can move faster than the four of us. So, if you want to go, you can.”

And Jaskier… didn’t know what to say to that.

He settled on a huff, shaking his head as he replied, “Rather bold of you to assume that I would need your blessing to leave, Geralt.” Jaskier also conveniently ignored the fact that the sense of _not right_ no longer plagued him, distracted by his refusal to acknowledge said fact by Geralt leading him through a clumsy twirl.

“There, see?” Jaskier smiled up at him, “What did I tell you? Practice makes perfect.”

* * *

“Well, at least now we know there’s one thing worse than being covered in monster guts.”

“And that is?”

“Standing _next_ to someone covered in monster guts,” Jaskier shuddered. It had taken everything he had not to throw up when Lambert returned to the inn completely covered in mud and muck and viscera; his shoes squelching with every step. The rotting stench of it was so strong Jaskier couldn’t smell anything else, senses overwhelmed by the sight of what used to be hot innards cooling and sticking to skin.

He could practically feel Lambert rolling his eyes. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“If you ask me, coming in looking like that _was_ a cry for help,” Jaskier told him, putting the soaps and lotions back into his pack. “I’ve never seen Ciri’s eyes go so wide.”

“I’m sure she’s seen much worse,” Lambert rolled his eyes again, “one dirty witcher isn’t going to traumatize her.”

Jaskier turned back to where Lambert was staring at the bathwater like it had personally offended him and frowned. “What’s gotten into you, lately? You’ve been in a gods-awful mood the past week – ”

“I’m fine,” Lambert snapped, staring at the bathwater like it had personally offended him, “just tired of hiding the nastier parts of the job so a kid doesn’t get any more nightmares. Sometimes you get filthy on a hunt, and people just have to deal with it.”

“Yes, I know that,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, walking back over to the bathtub, “this isn’t exactly my first foray into post-monster-explosion-baths –”

“I don’t need to hear about how you rubbed chamomile into Geralt’s ass while you stared at him with the same love-sick eyes you’ve been giving him all month,” Lambert snarled.

It stung, sharp and painful like seawater in a fresh cut, and Jaskier sucked in a breath through his teeth. He stood there for a moment, getting himself under control before giving a sharp nod. “Right, well, I’m going to go downstairs and get some food, seeing as I gave up my dinner for this, and you can come down when you’re feeling like being less of an asshole.”

Jaskier was halfway to the door when he heard Lambert’s farewell.

“Have fun hiding beneath Geralt’s skirt.”

Jaskier stopped, slowly turning back towards the bath and making his way over, pausing to grab a bucket full of bathwater that they hadn’t needed to add to the tub. Over time, it had become as frigid as the rest of the room, and Lambert let out a very satisfying howl as Jaskier dumped it over his head.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, “bit cold, was it?

Lambert whipped his head around to glare at Jaskier, “What the fuck was that for?”

“ _For_ _being an asshole_ ,” Jaskier told him, his hands shaking with barely contained rage and something far too close to hurt for his liking.

He put the bucket down next to the bathtub, and moved to leave again, only managing a few steps before a damp hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him into the bathtub.

Jaskier came up spluttering bath water, his clothes soaked and sticking to his skin, and he

and Lambert stared at one another. Both of them seemed equally as shocked as the other over what had just happened. And despite how much Jaskier wanted to hold on to the rage, to the hurt, that had left him shaking before he fell into the tub, he couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Perhaps Lambert felt the same way, because he soon joined in with the laughter, and before Jaskier knew it the two of them were engaged in an all-out splash war.

By the time Jaskier threw up his hands in defeat, the both of them were utterly drenched. “Alright, alright, I surrender. Do with me what you will, you uncaring brute,” Jaskier glanced around at the room and winced. “Better you than the owner of this fine establishment when he sees the state of the floor.” Jaskier turned back to Lambert with a smile, but it quickly faltered at the look on the man’s face. Lambert? What is it?”

“I… ” Lambert looked at him. Just... looked. His eyes full of something that Jaskier couldn’t even begin to decode on his own. “I’m sorry. For what I said. You were right, I was being an asshole. I just –” he took a deep breath and dropped his gaze, and Jaskier was having _none_ of that. 

“Hey,” Jaskier reached forward, carefully taking one of Lambert’s hands in his own, “talk to me.”

Lambert raised his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. “I’m not – ” Lambert swallowed down the rest of his words, and then his voice was so quiet that Jaskier had to strain to hear it. “I care.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed in confusion before it dawned on him. “Oh. _Oh_. I didn’t mean it, Lambert, I was just teasing. I know you care. I’ve always known. Despite all that prattle about witchers not having emotions. I mean, one look at how Geralt is with Ciri would tell anyone that’s a load of horseshit – ”

Lambert’s hand tightened around Jaskier’s. “I’m not Geralt.”

Jaskier frowned. “I know.” He felt like he was caught in the middle of a dance that he didn’t know any of the steps to, struggling to catch up.

“Good.” Lambert nodded, gently tugging Jaskier closer to him.

And Jaskier let him.

This close, Jaskier could see that the dim light in the room had turned Lambert’s golden eyes a soft amber, and he could feel the heat rising from his bare skin. Jaskier reached forward with his free hand, his fingers tracing over the scars of his chest. Barely brave enough to touch them, but so very desperate to. And all of a sudden, with a rush of euphoria so strong it would have sent him to his knees were he not there already, Jaskier knew what the next step was.

“Jaskier,” Lambert murmured, his breath soft and warm against Jaskier’s lips, “Do you… do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I think,” Jaskier brought his hand up to cup Lambert’s face, thumb stroking every so gently against the man’s cheek, “that this is you telling me that you love me.”

Lambert let out a shaky breath, his chest shuddering beneath Jaskier. “Yes.”

With that, Lambert crossed what little space remained between them, and pressed their lips together. And Jaskier met him in kind, enjoying the soft press of Lambert against him, and the warmth curling throughout his entire being. Lost in dizzying joy, with his heart so full that he thought it might burst. 

Lambert pulled back, and Jaskier missed him immediately.

“I’m not –” Lambert took a moment to get his breath back, and Jaskier took the time to admire the slight breathless quality of his voice “– I can’t be a substitute, Jas. I – I deserve to want _and_ be wanted, to hold _and_ be held, to love _and_ be loved.” Lambert let go of Jaskier’s hand to cup his face with both hands, holding him as though he was made of the finest, most fragile porcelain, rather than simple flesh and bone. “And so do you.”

“I know,” Jaskier told him, his voice raw and scratchy around the lump of emotion caught in his throat. “And you _are_ , Lambert.” He reached up and covered Lambert’s hands with his, holding his gaze all the while. “We are.”

Lambert looked at him like he was love personified, and brought their foreheads together with a shaky exhale, his breath ghosting across Jaskier’s lips. And Jaskier felt a shiver go down his spine as he pressed himself closer. The two of them sitting there, just breathing one another in for a very, very long time.

* * *

“You don’t have to go.”

“I know,” Jaskier said, smiling as he packed the last of his belongings, “but I want to.”

Ciri pursed her lips. “I don’t see why we can’t all stay together.”

Jaskier shook his head, “Because Lambert has The Path to get back to. And my path is with him while yours and Geralt’s –” he shrugged “– isn’t.”

Silence fell between the two of them, and Jaskier spared one last glance around for anything he might have missed before finally tying his pack closed.

“I’ll miss you.” The admission was pulled from somewhere deep within her, and it made Jaskier’s heart ache gently.

“And I’ll miss you,” Jaskier turned around, placing his hand on Ciri’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “But come winter, we’ll be waiting for you in Kaer Morhen, with a thousand stories and songs to keep you occupied all winter-long.”

Ciri’s lips tried to quirk into a smile, her eyes far too bright for the dimly lit room. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Please, do,” Jaskier said, pulling her into a tight hug, “someone has to keep me honest.”

Ciri clutched him back just as tight before drawing back with a laugh, and a playful shove. “Well, go on then. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Jaskier gave her one last sweeping bow. “As you command, your highness.”

She gave him one last playful shove in return and then he was out the door and walking down the stairs, chuckling to himself as he went.

The tavern was quiet when he entered it, most of its patrons had already headed home or were tucked upstairs in their rooms, snoring loudly and dead to the world. Jaskier took a moment to enjoy the quiet ambience of it all, nodding to the barkeep as he passed, before spotting Geralt leaning against the wall next to the tavern door.

“Come to dispense some more sage advice?” Jaskier teased, coming to a stop just in front of Geralt with wink.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “Thought I’d remind you to keep Lambert between you and any wyverns.” His face took on a far softer expression. “And to take care of yourself.”

Jaskier smiled softly, reaching up and clasping Geralt on the shoulder. “You too, Geralt.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Jaskier let go of Geralt’s shoulder, opening the tavern door and giving one last slight wave before stepping through it and into the night.

Lambert was waiting for him in the stables, securing the last of the packs to his horse. He didn’t look up when Jaskier walked in, but the horse, Koń, at least gave a soft nicker of acknowledgement. A part of Jaskier was fairly certain that had more to do with the sugar cubes in his pocket than him, but he ignored that part. Even as he offered one of the said sugar cubes to Koń with an open palm and a soft, crooning voice.

“You’re going to rot her teeth,” Lambert told him, but there was no heat to it, and he finished tying up the packs with smile curling his lips. 

“Now, Lambert,” Jaskier scolded, “don’t be jealous. There’s plenty of sugar to go around.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, walking over to Jaskier and tugging him close, resting his hands on Jaskier’s hips. “Ready to go?”

Jaskier nodded. “Have you said your goodbyes yet?”

“Talked to the kid this morning. And Geralt,” Lambert shrugged, “neither of us like long goodbyes.” 

Jaskier nodded again, leaning up and pressing a gentle kiss to Lambert’s lips. He meant for it to be a quick, chaste peck, but didn’t exactly protest when Lambert deepened it. Turning it into a slow, languid one, that made his chest feel all warm and fuzzy. 

Jaskier pulled back with a soft, slightly breathless laugh, “Alright, alright. If you keep that up, we won’t be leaving until tomorrow.”

Lambert blinked at him innocently, “Keep what up?”

Jaskier shot him a look and Lambert grinned smugly at him in response, letting go of Jaskier’s waist to grab Koń’s reigns. Once he had them in hand, he opened the stable gate and the three of them took their first steps down the path together. And as they continued into the night, Jaskier let Lambert intertwine their fingers together and, in the soft unreality of a world half asleep while they were wide awake, thanked Destiny from the very bottom of his heart.


End file.
